My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband (Big, Fat Bigwigs #3)

Prologue

Tatiana

2 years ago...

M y palms are sweaty against the satin of my dress. It’s a classic A-line that cost three months of savings but looks like it set me back six. The perfect budget-conscious bridal dress.

Look at you, Tatiana. So efficient. You’ve color-coded the seating chart, triple-confirmed with catering, and even managed to get your mother and future mother-in-law to agree on the centerpieces. Gold star for you.

The chapel smells like lilies and that specific scent of old wood polished to a high shine. My stomach churns slightly, but I blame it on the fact that I couldn’t manage more than two bites of toast this morning.

Pre-wedding jitters are normal. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. The fact that I’ve spent the past three hours mentally rehearsing my vows while simultaneously running through worst-case scenarios is also normal.

Probably.

“You look beautiful, sweetie,” my mother says, fussing with my veil for the seventeenth time. Her hands smell like the lavender lotion she’s worn since I was a child. Familiar. Loving.

“Thanks, Mom.” My voice comes out steady. Professional. The same voice I use when fielding calls for my boss Christopher Blackwell. The voice I use to ensure only the worthy get through to his sacred calendar.

I suppress a laugh at that mental image. My recently-married boss... it’s all just a show. Billionaires are no better than anyone else. They might strut around like peacocks with platinum feathers, acting like they’re some special breed of human that evolved past the rest of us mere mortals, but deep down, they’re just as flawed and messy as everyone else. They have fears. They have hurts. Just... different fears and hurts. Like worrying their yacht might be six feet shorter than their rival’s, or the heartbreak of their favorite private chef being pounded by a rival tech mogul.

The bridal room is small but tasteful. Like everything else about this wedding, it represents the best possible outcome on a firmly middle-class budget. I’ve spreadsheet-ed this whole affair into submission.

Wedding planning: like being a personal assistant, but for your own life event.

And unpaid, at that.

I check my watch. Five minutes until showtime.

My best friend Sabrina pokes her head in. “You ready? Everyone’s seated.”

“I was born ready,” I say with a smile that feels both genuine and slightly manic. “How’s Rylan looking? Handsome and terrified?”

Something flickers across her face. “I haven’t seen him yet. I’m sure he’s with the groomsmen.”

“Right.” I nod, ignoring the tiny pinprick of unease. “Of course.”

Rylan should be here by now.

Probably stuck in traffic or, knowing him, dealing with a last-minute boutonnière crisis. He’s always running slightly behind, which makes us perfectly balanced. You know, me perpetually early, him charmingly late.

No no, he’s with the groomsmen. Of course he is. Yes, that’s it.

The wedding coordinator appears, clipboard in hand, all business.

“It’s time,” she says briskly.

I nod nervously. “Wait, is Rylan—”

“He’s waiting for you!” she says curtly.

My heart leaps for joy and I sigh in relief. Thank god. The rational part of my brain knew he wouldn’t bail, but the irrational part, the side of me that stayed up until 3 AM last night cataloging every possible wedding disaster from rain to food poisoning to spontaneous chapel combustion, that part needed confirmation.

See? You’ve been catastrophizing for nothing. The man loves you. Now go out there and get yourself legally bound to him before he comes to his senses.

My father takes my arm. He smells like aftershave and emotion. “I’m proud of you, Tati.”

I swallow hard and nod. Words are suddenly difficult.

The music starts. Not the traditional march. Rylan and I agreed on a string quartet playing an instrumental version of the first song we danced to. I’d insisted on that detail.

My eyes start to tear up when I hear the music, but I blink them back. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.

I bet Rylan’s openly weeping though. He always gets emotional during times like this.

God, I hope seeing those doe-eyed, tearful eyes of his doesn’t set me crying, too. The last thing I need is to turn into a human sprinkler system in front of everyone I’ve ever met.

The doors open. The chapel is full of faces turning toward me, smiles blooming like the roses clutched in my hands.

I focus on my breathing, on not tripping, and on the fact that shortly I’ll be married to the man I love.

One foot in front of the other. Just like walking into a boardroom. Except with better shoes and much higher stakes.

Three steps in, my eyes search for Rylan at the altar. I blink, scanning the front of the chapel.

That’s weird. Where is he? Maybe he stepped behind the minister for some reason? Or had a last-minute bathroom emergency?

My pace falters slightly as I continue walking. My father reassuringly squeezes my arm, as if to say ‘he’ll be here.’

But by halfway down the aisle, there’s no denying it. Rylan isn’t here. Only his best friend James is present, standing awkwardly with a crooked boutonnière.

Oh god. Oh no. This isn’t happening.

The wedding coordinator was wrong. Like, somebody-should-revoke-her-professional-license wrong.

My stomach plummets through the floor, probably continuing straight through the earth’s core and out the other side. The bouquet in my hands suddenly feels like it weighs a million pounds, each flower a separate accusation. Where is he? How is he not here? Did the universe really just play the cruelest bait-and-switch in wedding history?

This isn’t happening. Tell me this isn’t happening. Someone’s filming a reality show, right? ‘Surprise the Bride with Soul-Crushing Disappointment?’

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

I keep walking because what else can I do? Seventy-eight pairs of eyes are watching me process this nightmare in real-time.

My father hands me off at a kiss-less, groom-less altar with a confused glance. I take my place, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the stained glass suddenly too bright, too mocking. The colors dance across the white aisle runner beneath my feet. Red. Blue. Gold. Beautiful and utterly meaningless.

I look at his best friend James, and the pit in my stomach expands into a black hole. I lean toward him.

“Where’s Rylan?” I whisper, my voice suddenly very small.

James shakes his head. “Tatiana, I— I’m sorry.”

The whispers start then, rippling through the congregation like wind through tall grass. I feel my cheeks burning.

“He’s not coming...” The words escape before I can stop them.

James looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. “I’m so sorry. He called me twenty minutes ago. He said... he said he couldn’t go through with it.”

I laugh. I actually laugh.

And the tears start.

This isn’t happening. This is a nightmare. My life has become a terrible romcom where I’m the pathetic side character who gets dumped so the actual protagonist can find true love.

I quickly wipe my eyes. No. I’m stronger than that. Yes, my perfectly planned wedding is imploding in real time, with seventy-eight witnesses and a string quartet providing the soundtrack. But I’ll take it standing up. Like I’ve taken everything in my life. I’ll cry over ten buckets of chocolate ice cream later.

“Did he say why?” My voice is eerily calm. Professional Tatiana has taken over, the version of me that handles crises for a living.

James shakes his head. “Just that he was sorry and he’d call you later.”

Call me later? CALL ME LATER? Like we had a coffee date he needed to reschedule?

The minister looks stricken. “Miss Cole, perhaps we should—”

“No.” I cut him off, turning to face the rows of shocked faces. My mother is crying. Rylan’s mother looks mortified. My college roommate is already on her phone, probably updating her social media.

I wonder if getting jilted will go viral. Maybe I’ll become a meme. ‘Sad Wedding Girl’ or something equally devastating.

“Thank you all for coming,” I say, my voice carrying clearly through the chapel. “Unfortunately, there’s been a change of plans. The wedding is canceled. Please enjoy the reception. The food is paid for, and it would be a shame to waste it.”

A strange calm settles over me as I walk back down the aisle alone. The same aisle I just walked up with such hope. The string quartet has stopped playing, unsure what to do. I don’t blame them. There’s no playbook for this.

In the bridal room, I carefully remove my veil. My hands are steady. Too steady. I’m in shock, probably. That’s fine. Shock is better than the tsunami of humiliation and heartbreak that’s waiting to crash over me the moment I’m alone.

Can’t wait to start on those ten buckets of ice cream. I think I’ll pick up a couple of black forest cakes, too. Yes. That will do just nicely.

I’d swipe the wedding cake on the way out as well, but I don’t think I’d have the heart to eat it. Not after this. Not dry-eyed, anyway.

Sabrina bursts in, her face a mask of fury and sympathy. “That absolute bastard. I’ll kill him.”

“Get in line,” I say, attempting a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half.

“What do you need?” she asks, always practical. “Tell me what to do.”

What I need is to rewind time. What I need is an explanation. What I need is to not be standing here in a wedding dress with no wedding.

“I need to leave,” I say instead. “Right now. And ice cream. Lots of ice cream.”

As Sabrina helps me gather my things, I make a silent vow to myself:

Never again will I stand somewhere waiting for someone who isn’t coming. Never again will I put my heart, my plans, my life in someone else’s hands.